Beloved of Ravens
by khaleesian
Summary: 978 A.D. Charles never uses his power, Erik never hesitates. Can a man be both the void and what fills it? XMFC Viking AU


_Oh god, oh god._ Charles prayed as he stumbled forward, almost tripping into a gorse hedge on the side of the hill. _Please, I need to be faster._

A long, terrified scream echoed from the village, cutting through the thunderous roar of flames. A savage shout, a vicious laugh. He could feel the mental presence of the man at his heels. His pursuer was silent but for the clicks of metal buckles, light panting.

The hill behind the village was steep, but Charles was a nimble climber. He scrabbled desperately up clinging to handfuls of long grass. He was halfway to the forest when a hot hand closed around his ankle and jerked him off balance, sending him in a tumbling rush downhill.

By the time he'd shaken off his dizziness and scrambled to his feet again, the Viking was closing on him, sword drawn.

Charles shut his eyes and tried to draw on the thread inside himself; the tiny, glittering flicker of _something_ that occasionally flowed through him. He took one step back and spread his hand and for a moment hope surged, the fierce man actually **stopped** his advance.

"Don't hurt me." Charles panted, little caring how soft he sounded. This wasn't the time for pride as the screams continued to echo against the hills. He didn't harbor any great hopes of being understood.

But under his thick leather helmet, the Viking smiled in a sudden flash of deathly white. The Viking said something in his own guttural tongue and then repeated Charles' words in a thickly-accented jeer, "Don't hurt me."

Charles fumbled at his belt and jerked his dagger free. His stepbrother had given it to him last Michaelmas. With a jeweled hilt and curved blade, the knife was obviously never meant to be wielded in anger. Charles unsheathed it anyway. If the Viking got close enough, he might have a chance in hell. Of course, a quiet part of Charles' brain observed, he'd have to get _very_ close and Charles hadn't the faintest idea of what would be a killing blow. The man bristled with weapons, had a shield hanging over his back, thick leather greaves and braces, staring at Charles with the eyes of a wolf.

Suddenly, the knife in his hand was blazing hot and Charles dropped it with a cry. The Viking grinned at him, savage and vulpine and said very clearly. "Not hurt you."

He stepped forward quickly, reversing the short sword in his hand so the leather-bound hilt jutted out like a hammer. Charles didn't even have time to flinch before his vision bloomed white and then blackness.

He woke up vomiting. The world was tilting steadily back and forth. He was somewhere cold, dark, damp and smelly. Deafening with rumbling water and creaking wood. Charles crawled toward the sickly light filtering in past a sheepskin curtain. His hands were bound tightly at the wrists, the leather straps were cutting into his skin. His head was pounding and he just wanted to curl up and die. He poked his head out past the sheepskin and the sudden light was so dazzling that he heaved up the rest of what was in his stomach.

Someone snarled something harsh and unintelligible over his head. He didn't understand, but he could feel their disgust wash over him in waves. Someone jerked him to his feet and gave him a casual shove sending him collapsing back into the darkness. After a moment, there was another voice and a shadow of a man, even darker in the faint light. Hard hands on his back turned him over and suddenly water was dripping on his face, fresh water. Charles gasped and took a long swallow.

The voice muttered at him, making him drink slowly. Charles found that just taking a few swallows and fighting not to throw up again was enough to exhaust him. He fell asleep huddled on the seesawing floor with another sheepskin bunched under his cheek.

The mountains dove straight down into the ocean. Charles tried not to gawk at the huge trees and rocky crags. He was trying very, very hard to make himself invisible. The inlet finally widened out at its base; the stream that flowed through it was a golden ribbon in the late afternoon light. They had yanked him off the ship in a flurry with the rest of the plunder. Now they were half-shouting at each other in manic, cheerful banter while the bundles of furs, chiming silver plate and chests full of coins were hauled up to a sturdy circle of longhouses. Charles trudged alongside the procession, guided by their shoves and jostles.

The pain in his head kept him from thinking too hard about the last time he'd eaten. But there was no malice in these people; they were genuinely happy to see the return of their warriors, laden with other people's misery. His mind sucked greedily at their celebratory spirit and it kept him upright for the final steps into their great hall. They were already feasting and the stolen treasures were being laid out like bridal gifts. The rugs were fingered, the weapons were being catalogued. Someone grabbed Charles by the shoulder and shoved him to his knees in front of the high table with a shout.

Some people's minds were clearer than others.

Their chieftain was middle-aged, barrel-chested with a ginger beard turning white and a shrewd look. His mind was clear as still water and Charles shuddered in horror. The chieftain spoke in a deep rumble and Charles was filled with the vision of himself hung upside down from a huge tree, struggling and screaming among the flyblown corpses of dogs and horses. It felt as if the blood were already draining from his body. Terror made it impossible to push back, to gather himself and concentrate enough to dispel those awful thoughts.

But then someone else spoke and the vision receded. The chieftain cocked his head at one of his warriors. The man gestured expansively, nudged Charles with his booted foot and the whole assembly laughed. Charles dared a glance up. It was his kidnapper. Without his helmet, the Viking's grin drew every eye. He was smiling, but his eyes were almost colorless in the firelight and Charles felt a distinct anxiety underneath the amusement of the hall.

The chieftain waved his hand carelessly. Charles got nothing of the sense of his words, but the tone was magnanimous. Charles' kidnapper helped him struggle upright and then basically shoved him out the door. Outside the air was much cooler and Charles tripped over his own feet while the Viking push-pulled him past a hut that looked like an enormous beehive in the fading light.

The Viking stopped abruptly and unsheathed a short, ugly-looking blade. Charles didn't have time to recoil before his bonds were unceremoniously sliced away. The deep purple welts on his forearms started to burn and sting almost at once but his companion just firmed up his grip on Charles' elbow and kept walking. A pale-haired woman called something and the Viking answered her with what sounded like an affirmative.

Charles tripped again, stumbling out of the vise-like grip. He hit the ground hard enough to almost knock his breath away. His head was swimming and he cringed slightly, hardly daring to look at the man who was so quick with his blades. But the Viking just grunted, braced his foot against Charles' and clasped his hand to pull him upright. The man gazed into Charles' face for a long moment. He bent double unexpectedly and Charles yelped when the man jabbed his shoulder into Charles' belly, circled one arm around his thighs and lifted him like he was a calf for slaughter.

Being carried in a jarring jog-trot, Charles didn't take in much of his surroundings until they were through a doorway into a small hut that was as chilly and dark as it was outside. Charles found himself being slung down on an earthen floor like a sack of grain. He stayed very still while the Viking conjured up a fire with flint and iron. The hearth had been laid. The room was small enough that Charles could see every corner just in firelight.

There was a scratching sound at the door and the pale-haired woman brought in a covered bowl of something that made saliva well up in Charles' mouth. He was so dizzy now that he could barely hold his head up. The woman ladled out stew into a smaller bowl and the Viking passed it down to him with a chunk of bread. They spoke briefly over his head as Charles stared at the food and tried to keep his hands from shaking. A mouthful of the stew almost made tears come to his eyes.

When she left, the Viking said a curt phrase that she acknowledged with a murmur. Charles repeated it under his breath twice before the Viking looked at him. He was unlacing the thick leather braces that covered his arms almost to the elbow. "Thank you."

Charles blinked at him and repeated numbly. "Thank you?"

The man grinned and the firelight made him look like a death's head, a skull. He repeated the curt phrase and Charles understood in a rush. Thank you.

"I am Charles." The bread and stew sat heavy in his shrunken belly. He wondered if he should bother with his full name.

The Viking frowned at him and repeated almost perfectly. "I am Charles." He stumbled a little over the 'ch' sound.

"No." Charles contradicted. "**I** am Charles." He pointed at his face. "You are…?"

The Viking hunkered down next to Charles on the floor. He touched his own chest. "Erik Járnangan."

Charles stared at him, struck dumb. He could feel in some corner of his head that his stepbrother was dead. His mother still lived, but her presence in his mind was faint, weakened. Now that he was alive again with food in his stomach and fire warming the air, the thoughts filled his head, roiling like the vast grey ocean that stood between now and his former life.

The Viking…Erik was still talking, a low tone, friendly but indifferent, like he didn't expect that Charles would understand him anyway. He had a pleasant voice. He had a row of neat hooks on the wall for his thick leather armor, his sword, axe and shield. He gave Charles a small bowl full of water and mimed that he should drink it.

Charles could hear his own breath getting deeper, but the air he drew in wasn't any good. Suddenly, his lungs were pumping like bellows and his throat was thickening, his eyes were starting to sting…

"Létta." There was a hand in his hair. Erik tugged Charles' head back until he couldn't look anywhere but into Erik's pale eyes. Erik slapped him lightly; the sting was shocking but not really painful.

"Not think." Erik grinned with half his mouth. "Sleep now."

Charles stopped breathing when Erik dug both hands into Charles' hair. Erik's palms brushed over his temples and his thoughts were like firelight, peaceful but melancholy. Erik was delicately fingering the knot on Charles' skull and Charles had a sudden sensation of sharp regret, like Erik had wanted it otherwise.

Erik was turning his head this way and that, like Charles was a child or a doll. Erik stroked the bruise over his eyebrow, a relic of one of the many times he'd been pushed or fallen to the ground. Charles squinted that eye shut.

He had a sudden hysterical urge to laugh, but it turned into a gasp when Erik reached down and pulled Charles' tunic over his head. Charles froze. Erik just gave him an arch look and made an elaborate show of holding the cloth to his nose. Then he threw it on the fire.

Charles twitched with the urge to cover himself, but resisted with the bare remains of his pride. He wished desperately for the words to protest_: it was just dirty and torn, it could have been washed and mended. _

Erik dunked a handful of wool into a cooking pot next to the hearth and swiped a few times over Charles forehead and cheek. The cloth came away brown with old blood and dirt. Charles stopped him after a moment with one hand on his wrist. Erik just cocked his head, looking amused when Charles peeled the rag out of his hand.

Erik didn't speak any more, he just watched as Charles swabbed himself as clean as could be. Charles watched out of the corners of his eyes as Erik slowly unlaced and unwrapped all his own layers of fur, leather and wool. The man underneath was just as pale as Charles and lean, but hard as iron. Three large scars rent his shoulder, thigh and chest, but the rest of him was unmarked.

Erik finally spoke in a half-mocking tone, like he was laughing at either Charles or himself. He sat on the high edge of his sleeping platform and looked down at Charles, who still crouched hearthside. After a long moment, Erik smirked and threw him two pelts. Thick fur, large as a deer but not like any deer he'd ever seen.

It wasn't until the fire had burned down to a steady red glow that Charles unwound enough to sleep. His last waking thought was _slave._

After a hasty breakfast, Erik took him down to the sod hut that looked like a beehive. Charles followed him closely, trying not to feel too self-conscious without his tunic in the cool air. The door opened into blackness and Charles hesitated on the step. It was like stepping into an oven; the windowless room was lit only by a low fire of scented wood.

For the barest second, Charles thought that it _was_ an oven, that Erik had brought him here to strip the flesh from him, boil his bones for soup. He had heard so many stories of these heathens, that there was no limit to their barbarity…

As his eyes adjusted, Charles noticed two other warriors slumped on benches, naked. One was picking at his toenails with a ridiculously large knife; the other was slowly loosening knots out of his hair. The floor was set with stones and a trough full of water lined one wall. Charles took a deep breath of the steamy air and relaxed marginally.

They greeted Erik and eased back onto the benches as Erik grunted and stripped off his leggings. Charles was only too glad to pull his own off. Being clean was a real luxury, no matter the circumstances. One of the Vikings tipped some water onto the charcoal fire and the steam billowed up in a cloud.

Erik's hair was almost past his shoulder blades, Charles noticed. Curled at the ends.

A thin thread of anxiety tickled his mind. Charles kept his eyes down but managed to take a few furtive glances without courting a beating. The other two spoke in the sluggish way of the deeply hung-over. They were built like Erik, tall and lean, but powerful and crisscrossed with scars. Charles cupped his elbows and tried to become part of the wall.

His stepfather's status had made it easy for Charles to stand apart from village life. His budding mental talents had made his mother's mouth tighten. He remembered her fingers stroking his hair and whispered admonitions. The beetle-black brows of their priest and his suspicious looks had made Charles cagey and surreptitious even when he was alone. Back at home, he never stretched his mind out to others, fearful of their fear. But here he had to throw the doors open.

They were probably planning to kill him soon anyway.

Charles opened his mind and had to choke down a bubble of nausea. The one nearest to him was remembering jerking an axe out of some victim's skull. Charles could almost feel the sickening slurp of sound as the flesh sucked free from the heavy iron. And the young Viking couldn't _stop_ thinking about it, he was imagining and re-imagining the blood, the crunch of bone, the loose heap of meat that had been a man. The queasiness was cloying; despite being still deeply hung-over, the young Viking was wondering even now where he could scare up some aquavit. Charles tried to slow his breathing as Erik looked askance at him.

The other one on the far side was thinking about a woman, a free woman. Specifically about how she smiled at her little sister, laced with some cautious thoughts about how her bodice gaped when she leaned over to wind a bucket up from the well. He was just Charles' age and he was trying to frame an invitation for a walk that wouldn't get him laughed at. He was surprised that Charles was in here; this wasn't a place for thralls. And he was scared of Erik. Charles felt that very clearly, but what wasn't clear was _**why**_.

The nearer Viking said something that sounded vaguely disparaging and Erik turned to look at him and gave him a grin that was less a smile than a display of sharp teeth. It wasn't long before the other two made their excuses and left. The open door let a quick breath of pine-scented air in and dispelled the vague cloud of disquiet.

"Is good?" Charles tried a couple of the few words he'd been able to isolate.

Erik laughed gleefully and returned a string of words that had Charles shaking his head.

"Foolish." Erik's delighted smile flashed in the darkness. He jerked his head toward his retreating brethren. "Not…I not know word."

He had some kind of bristly brush and Charles had to submit to being scrubbed vigorously. He was suddenly keenly aware of his skin for the first time in a while. He couldn't remember ever being this naked and alone with someone. But Erik didn't seem to have any patience with shyness or diffidence.

Erik's thoughts were oddly obscured. Like Erik had reached into clear water and muddied it. It was as if whatever Erik was thinking, he was trying hard not to think it.

They had pulled their ships ashore. In the sun, they looked like sleeping dragons with overlapping rows of scales.

Walking around in Erik's shadow gave Charles plenty of opportunities to observe. He noticed at once that the village was practically a fortress, with stockades hemming in their valley and cliffs encircling the fjord. Two complicated war machines flanked the bay, looking like giant crossbows.

Another thing Charles noticed was that the security wasn't solely to defend life. The village was only a third the size of his home, but it oozed wealth like Constantinople. The great hall had tapestries and glass in the windows, gold flashed from the arms and necks of women who were carding wool, spinning and gossiping.

Erik left him at the door of the great hall's kitchen and vanished. The pale-haired woman from the night before looked at Charles and sighed. "Gudrun."

"Thank you?" Charles started. One of the dark-haired girls sitting behind her laughed. There were six of them, sitting in a circle grinding grain to flour. No gold torques or bracelets here but a few amber beads strung on leather cords. It didn't look like anyone had gone hungry for at least one winter, possibly two.

The older woman barely grimaced while she tapped her chest. "Gudrun."

"Charles." He couldn't tell if her hair was white-blonde or just white. Her face didn't give away her age or anything else. She wiped her hands on her apron and handed him a small axe. She pointed at the woodpile and Charles turned to it gratefully.

Erik had given him a new tunic. Now Charles' clothes were the same as all the others, but he still felt the occasional assessing glance. He was noticed everywhere, their eyes caught on him, paused. Sometimes it made the nape of his neck tingle.

The first word he learned was _thank you_ but he seldom had that phrase directed at him. The next words he learned were _eggs_, _good, hot, bread, there, stop, ale, four, clumsy, fire _and_ now. _He pieced the rest of the words around those few like an elaborate puzzle.

The third day, one of the younger warriors jostled him in the great hall and Charles wasn't fast enough to keep Erik's tankard from baptizing his shoes. Charles was on the ground in short order; the clout to his head made his ears buzz. He hesitated before scrambling up because the younger ones almost always seemed to simmer with repressed violence and it was best to move slowly and talk softly around them. They were easy to read, but hard to predict.

Erik strode up and said something that sounded friendly. The young warrior opened his mouth in a sullen reply and suddenly his blood splashed in a long spray that flecked the front of Charles' new tunic. Charles blinked as Erik hammered the unfortunate with his fist until he was gasping little red bubbles of breath on the floor. His friends stood silent, some with their drinks halfway to their mouths.

Erik pointed to Charles and the first sentence that Charles fully understood was: "That's **mine**. Any blow on him is a blow upon me. And I'll repay it fivefold."

"Eight this time." Charles presented his basket to Gudrun. "I think more later."

"You learn fast." She took his basket and handed him a broom.

"To find eggs?" Charles had just learned the word 'find' that morning, because Erik had woken up slightly the worse for drink and wearing one shoe.

"I mean to speak." She shook her head at him, not unkindly. They looked at each other for a moment in silence. Maybe she came from a village not far from his. Maybe she'd been his age when she'd been taken. The rule was that they didn't speak of it.

He could have tried to search her memories, but he wasn't sure he really wanted to know.

One of the other girls said something, a quick jeer that Charles didn't understand. He caught just the word 'mare'. That would be Solveig. For some reason, she didn't like Charles.

His secret talent made people's feelings quite clear, particularly their feelings about him. It was like their emotions were liquid pooled around them. If he got too close, he'd get soaked. Getting an individual thought was more challenging, most people did not think very clearly. If he concentrated hard and pushed his focus outward, their thoughts would come back to him in a rude wave, but it was often exhausting and confusing.

Solveig oozed a hot, sticky, tooth-gritting feeling that he'd never experienced before. He'd only ever gotten the edge of it directed at his stepfather from other merchants, suppliers who felt hard done by. He'd tried to read her thoughts once but they were too quick and churned like a maelstrom. He avoided her if he could.

"Hush." Gudrun flapped a corner of her apron in disapproval. She started cracking the eggs into her bowl. She was making something that looked sweet. At least it required plenty of honey, butter, eggs and hazelnuts.

"We eat well." Charles hadn't meant to say that out loud, it had just struck him as odd. They ate better here than back in the wide, fertile valleys of his home. But the soil was thin here; the growing season was vanishingly short.

"I guess." Gudrun tilted her chin down to her work. She spoke under her breath, but Charles could still hear. _When you deal with the devil, best keep him well fed._

"What is…Uppsala?" Charles asked carefully. Erik always left the great hall a little earlier than the others, but tonight he had drunk faster and deeper than usual. He'd spent the walk back telling Charles an involved anecdote about someone with the unfortunate name of Snorre Soft-Hands. It seemed like as good a time as any to ask.

Erik seemed to sober up instantly and Charles felt a thrill of anxiety. "Who said that to you?"

Charles shrugged. He'd plucked that word out of half a dozen peoples' minds.

Charles felt that odd muddy feeling, like Erik wanted to lie. Then Erik took a deep breath through his nose and slipped out of his tunic. "It's a place of sacrifice. Every nine years, they sacrifice to Freya. Horses, mostly. Dogs."

"And slaves?" Charles ventured.

It seemed as though Erik could read his thoughts as well. He looked at Charles steadily and thrust his knife deep into the tabletop.

Charles felt the flicker of Erik's thumb stroke his eyebrow, light as the brush of a bird's feather. Erik's private regard was always pleasantly warm. "Not while I live."

"Careful." Charles dropped his broom to steady Solveig who was about to drop what looked like a heavy wooden box. He wasn't quite in time and she stumbled, wincing. The lid popped open and a variety of trinkets spilled on the ground. Luckily the floor was hard-packed dirt, no jangling or clinking to give them away.

Silently, they piled the odd coins, broken tools and weapons back into the box. There was a scroll of parchment half-tucked into a silver holder and Charles paused, unconsciously reading the leading edge. The familiar script of his own language was like seeing a friend in a faraway land, both joyful and jarring.

Solveig's usual contempt softened enough for her to whisper. "You can read?"

Charles nodded. For a moment her thoughts mirrored his own, _much good may it do you._

He slung the box to his own hip; the weight made him grunt. He had a sudden new appreciation for her strength. "Where are you taking this? I go also."

"The smith." She looked hesitant for a second and then forged ahead with a straight back, the expedition's leader. "They always need more…" She made a vague gesture that Charles couldn't begin to interpret. They left the hall in silence.

Solveig walked beside him fingering the fringe of her belt. Charles could feel her tingling, hard-beating heart: she was working up her courage. "What does he do?"

Charles didn't need her to clarify who she was talking about, but he didn't quite comprehend the question. "I don't understand."

"Den Uroerlige." She grimaced at what she thought of as his _stupid_ face. "Erik Járnangan. What do you…"

She was almost wringing her hands as she walked and he was finding it a struggle to keep up with her. They were nearly to the smith when she sighed and seemed to give up. "Never mind."

Charles would have apologized but he didn't actually know if they had a phrase like 'I'm sorry'. He wasn't quite sure what he would have been apologizing for, but it seemed the polite thing to do.

"Not very strong." She watched him set the box down with a relieved sigh.

"No." He agreed. There was a softer edge to her contempt now, he felt it keenly: pity.

"It would be better for you." Her eyes were green and hard as gemstones. "If you were stronger."

"Say me right." Charles started, blinking up at Erik from his nest on the floor. The mead at supper had gone to his head and he felt as close to fearless as he had in a while.

"Pronounce it for me." Erik corrected, busy unlacing his leggings.

"Pronounce it for me." Charles repeated gamely. "Ulf-bearth?"

"Ulfbearth." Erik said slowly and clearly. Ulfbearth was the one person in the village who Erik had the most time for, after Hrafnkel, the chieftain.

"Ulfbearth the…" Charles mimed swinging a hammer.

"Smith." Erik glanced down at him and smiled. "Blacksmith."

"Blacksmith." Charles repeated, resting his chin on his bent knees. The fire was getting low. Erik was now trimming his beard with a very sharp knife.

Charles watched until he had to blink. Erik had an ever-present furrow in his forehead; Charles wondered if it was a scar or just worry.

"Why you live here?" Charles asked softly, unsure if he could make himself understood.

Erik paused, scratching his chin idly with the dull side of the blade. "Where should I live?"

He was looking at Charles now. Charles pushed back away from the fire deeper into the shadow.

"You live…" Charles spread his hand, trying to signify _alone. _He gestured vaguely. "Longhouses, three families, four. You are here. Whole…" Charles gestured at the four walls. "Yours."

Erik arched his eyebrows and put his knife away. "It's…a reward."

"Reward?" Charles hadn't heard that word before. He said it a few times so he would remember.

Erik puckered his brow, looking around at his humble home as if for the first time. He picked up a short sword that he hadn't touched before and pulled it free of its ornate scabbard. He showed Charles the elaborate chasing down the blade. "When you do well, you get a reward."

Charles admired the sword, nodding like he understood. Erik paused a moment, then laughed.

Erik stood up and pointed at the silver plate hanging next to the fireplace. "Jorvik, reward." He took a figurine made from a glossy green stone off a shelf. "Jarlshof, reward." He pulled at a thick wool blanket which Charles now noticed had a sumptuous, subtle weave. "Skappa Brae, reward."

Charles had a sudden flutter of awareness and apprehension. He pointed at his own face. "Reward?"

It was hard to tell in the flickering red light, but it looked like Erik's eyes darkened. "Yes."

"Bad reward." Charles tried to scoff. "Clumsy. Not strong."

This conversation was making him breathless, like there was a bubble swelling in his chest. He was only marginally useful to Erik, fetching, carrying and keeping the fire fed. He was good at finding where the chickens hid their eggs and that was it. And now Erik was looking at him.

Erik leaned over, resting his elbows on his knees. He stared at Charles until Charles' face was burning.

After five days, he no longer flinched when Erik moved to touch him. Which was good because Erik touched him almost as often as he smiled.

"Not so bad." Erik brushed his finger over Charles' temple. "Strong here, maybe."

Erik plucked the silver plate off its hook and passed his hand over it. When he tilted it at Charles, it was a perfectly shined mirror. Charles blinked at his own reflection. The bruise covering the left side of his face was faded now, green and yellow. His eyes were as wide and wary as a deer.

Otherwise he looked much the same and somehow that was most unnerving. Erik's feeling of warm approval washed over him like sunlight. Erik usually radiated an affectionate approval at Charles as if Charles was a favored pet who didn't misbehave.

He turned away under cover of stoking up the fire and only caught the edge of Erik's grin. Erik reached down and dragged Charles' nest of reindeer pelts off the floor. "Are you cold?"

Charles considered denying it for a moment, but he couldn't mask his nervous shiver. Without those furs, he'd have to sleep _on_ the fire to keep from freezing. Every morning, he woke up aching from cold, stiff from the hard floor. And Erik was shaking the furs out, laying them on his own sleeping platform.

"It's warmer up here." Erik pointed with his elbow. "Come on."

Erik's usual feeling of warm approval had an odd note to it now. Something deep and unequivocal like hunger.

Charles bit his lip, but took the required shaky steps to the bed. He lay down slowly, flat on his back and Erik threw half of the thick wool blanket over him. The prize from Skappa Brae, Charles thought wildly.

Erik crawled in sighing and fussing with the furs and covers. Charles could feel the warmth stealing over him already. Erik was glad he was there. The fire was a dim crimson glow and he could watch Erik's shoulder just by flicking his eyes to the right. He took a deep breath.

"Hunting today." Erik said unnecessarily as he unhooked his quiver. The fact that it was raining like hell didn't seem to dampen his good humor. He paused and looked at Charles. "Now you say, 'good luck'."

"Now I say," Charles repeated dutifully. "…Rabbit would be nice."

Erik snorted a laugh and tapped Charles' shoulder appreciatively as he left. Charles had slept only a few hours, but so deeply that waking up had felt like gasping to life again, raised up like Lazarus. Erik had been stoking the fire, so Charles could stand and dress unnoticed.

Gudrun had a full day planned that included sweeping out the great hall and replacing all the rushes afresh. Hrafnkel sat with his old warriors drinking at one end of the hall. Charles kept his eyes low. Occasionally, he still got echoes of Hrafnkel's conviction that Charles would be a better sacrifice to Freya than a thrall. But since Erik had spoken, the worst thing he ever got from them was a dark sideways glance.

Gudrun frowned at him when he came back to the kitchen. "You shouldn't bite your lip like that."

Charles stopped, surprised. He patted his hand lightly over his lower lip, which was chapped and slightly sore. "I not hurt anyone but me, yes?"

"Makes you look nervous." Gudrun huffed. "They're like animals those ones, they can smell fear."

Ingrid, who had a sly smile and never kept her kirtle's bodice fully laced, grinned at him. "She means it makes your lips too red. Don't want to give them ideas, Charles."

He nodded, thinking of blood darkening the earth.

By evening, the air was cool and full of portents. The wind flirted with the rowan tree next to Erik's house, bringing promises of more rain. Charles watched the dark branches whip against the gray sky and took deep breath, enjoying the cool damp with a fire at his back.

He closed his eyes to feel the small pleasure of light mist on his eyelids and then Erik was laughing at him from the treeline. Erik smelled of smoke and wet wool and his hair was black with rain. He crowded past Charles, not letting him step back from the door. Inside Erik shook his hair out like a dog, chuckling when Charles wrinkled his nose.

Erik had both hands hidden behind his back. "Pick one."

Charles raised his eyebrows and pointed at Erik's right hand.

Erik brandished a brace of plump ground pheasant. Charles reached to take them, but Erik just hung them over a hook close to the door.

"Not so choosy as this morning?" Erik flourished a rabbit already skinned and spitted.

"You've done well." Charles tried not to smile, but Erik looked so pleased with himself as he peeled off his soaking wet coat and damp tunic.

"Hungry now?" Charles set the spit over the hearth at the proper distance to roast. It occurred to him that this was knowledge he hadn't possessed a week ago. Gudrun had given him a mash of turnips flavored with dried onion and thyme to take home.

"I am." But Erik's hand on his wrist kept Charles from reaching for the bowl. Erik pulled him close and stuck his face in Charles' neck. Charles wanted to laugh and jerk away…it tickled fiercely...but a sudden wave of tiny shivers made it hard to speak or move. Then Erik bit him.

"You taste good." Charles wasn't sure if Erik spoke, but that idea echoed in his thoughts.

Charles had time to gasp with surprise, one half-taken indrawn breath that left his mouth vulnerable. Erik's teeth were very sharp and his tongue made Charles' eyes screw shut.

His stomach had leapt up into the hollow of his throat and he couldn't draw a full breath. He panted around the feeling of Erik's thumbs stroking firmly over his cheekbones. Erik was cupping his face and Charles couldn't pull away, even when the intensity of the feeling made his knees weak.

Kissing, in his world, was what men did to women and girls they liked. Brief public promises for cloistered feelings. He'd kissed some girls before, enough to feel like he'd mastered the trick. But this was nothing like that.

Erik's usual feeling of warm approval had deepened into an unrecognizable voracious urge that almost ached inside Charles. It was hot and slippery, sluggish and incendiary like a pool of burning oil. Charles felt a wave of heat at the same time he shuddered with chill.

Charles was gripping the edge of the table very tightly but then Erik pushed one leg in between Charles' knees and his hands flailed out for balance. He caught hold of Erik's shoulder, gripped Erik's upper arm and squeezed so hard that Erik must feel it. Charles felt his fingernails dig in and still Erik's mouth on his was tender.

"I can't...you…this." Charles managed to turn away and gasp into Erik's neck. "I'm sick."

Erik grabbed Charles' hair and turned his face to the fire, examining him closely. "You're not."

"Yes." Charles shook his head firmly, even though he knew he didn't have the right words. _I have a fever and chills! _

"Then you should be in bed." Erik might have sounded ironic but for the fact that he was slightly breathless. He jerked Charles' tunic off and Charles shuddered again, but from heat, not cold. The brush of skin to skin made Charles feel like he'd swallowed his tongue. And then, Erik's hands were unlacing him and the waves of fever made Charles too feeble to even grab Erik's wrist.

Erik's knuckles brushing his belly should not have made him whimper like he was being hurt. There was no doubt in Erik's mind, no hesitation even as he touched Charles in places that Charles couldn't even…

He was so dizzy that it took him a moment to notice that he was on his back.

"Ah, please, I don't think…" In his confusion, he spoke in his own tongue. Then Erik clasped his sword hand over Charles' cock and Charles couldn't do anything but pant like a bellows. He was hot, his cheeks were _burning_ and his stomach clenched so hard that it almost cramped. And then he was…white hot and his hands were clawed into the furs and his eyes squeezed shut so hard while his whole body melted.

He'd only ever done this alone, late at night after even the moon had set. Erik's breath on his neck made him flush with shame. There was no hiding it; he was wet_ everywhere_. But Erik was smiling, almost laughing gently. Erik practically glowed with pleasure, adding to the warmth.

Erik was kindly letting him twist on to his stomach, helping him turn over so he could hide his humiliation. Erik's approval never wavered even as Charles was snuffling into the furs trying to hide his blazing face. Charles blinked at the edge of the sleeping platform and stretched his fingers to work out the tingling numbness. Erik's weight left the bed and Charles took a deep breath, casting about for his dignity.

Then Erik was back, making the bed creak. Charles' skin stung with something that was…halfway between a bite and a kiss. On his shoulder blade. Hard enough to make him shudder. And Erik's knee pressed between his knees.

Both of Erik's knees.

Charles wanted to arch, twist and see just what was happening, but Erik's hot weight and his own cold panic kept him motionless.

The next morning it was so pleasantly warm under the covers that unconsciously he tried to stretch until his body rebelled with a twinge that brought him fully awake. He had to clench his teeth to keep from yelping, but one glance around the hut told him that he was alone and the sun was well up. He slid to the side of the sleeping platform, wincing.

He was still…_leaking_ was the only word. He touched himself with a grimace and was relieved to see that he wasn't bleeding. He had a vague, cloudy memory of Erik dabbing at him, pushing his shoulder until he turned onto his back. Erik had fed him last night, pressing mouthfuls of roast rabbit on him. Charles had chewed and swallowed dutifully, even though it tasted like sawdust.

Erik didn't usually let him sleep the morning out. Charles usually spent the morning crouched low, feeding the fire while Erik dressed, washed his face and made porridge. For over a week now he'd been watching Erik's slightest move so closely without knowing why.

Charles scrubbed a hand over his face, deeply grateful for a moment alone.

Gudrun was expecting him; she might send someone to get him. Charles swallowed hard at the vision of Solveig mincing in the door. He could practically see her flaring nostrils. There was a bucket of clean water by the crackling fire. Charles splashed his face and ran a damp rag over his body, trying not to feel the ghost of other hands on him.

But that was hopeless. There were light scratches on his ribs. His left shoulder stung with crescents of bites. His lips and his nipples still felt pink and swollen. He dressed quickly and grabbed the silver platter which was still unnaturally shiny. He examined himself cautiously. His reflection still looked a little wild and wary, but if he could walk without limping no one would know.

He managed to get down to the great hall without giving in to his impulse to hurry. People looked hardest at whoever moved fastest. Charles kept his head down and ducked into the back door. His kitchen companions stopped their chatter abruptly; half a dozen faces turned his way.

With a sinking feeling, Charles realized that today the tables had turned. One glance told him that they could read his thoughts and feelings as clearly as if he were shouting.

Then Tova brought him a bowl of porridge and Gudrun waved him onto a stool in front of the whetstone. Their faces stayed blank as they showed him how it worked. The threads of their thoughts were gentle; he was surprised to feel no syrupy sludge of pity.

Charles paid very close attention to the spinning stone as conversation resumed. Solveig looked over at him a few times with a complicated expression. He didn't dare open himself to her thoughts.

When the stone grew hot, Ingrid brought a jug of water to douse it. She said, low and matter-of-fact, "First time is hard."

Charles noticed he was chewing on his lower lip and stopped. He glanced up at her. He caught the faint memory of a man who had nicked her breast trying to slice through the laces of her bodice. Charles felt her hot tears and revulsion while she'd screamed until her voice had gone. He blinked at her clear eyes and half smile. There was no anger in her any more, just vague melancholy.

"He is not trying to hurt you." She said this with the air of a person who was almost sure, but wanted to be reassured.

"No." Charles said, trying to be fair. He couldn't meet her eyes. Her stoic kind of comfort made him aware that no one in the room felt any surprise, shock or dismay. This was what he was _**for.**_ They knew his purpose, everyone knew, everyone except him.

Ingrid jiggled her head; they could have been two farmers talking about the harvest. "Maybe by…the fourth time it will be good."

He looked up at her and she spread her hands as if to say _this is the way the world is._ In this world, you fought if you could. It had never occurred to Charles to fight.

Erik didn't touch him again for three days. Well, Erik touched him, but only with his usual remorseless affection. Erik threw an arm around Charles' shoulder anytime they walked any distance together. He pressed his knee against Charles' when they sat on benches in the great hall. When he greeted Charles after a long day away, his smile consumed his whole face. No one had ever been so consistently glad to see Charles before. Erik didn't even appear to notice Charles' occasional flinch and the urge to bask in the warmth of Erik's regard was hard to resist.

When Erik looked over at him over the jar of rendered fat that he was using to oil his helmet, Charles felt like a mouse watching a snake. The deep thrum of Erik's not-quite-hunger made him feel heavy and feverish and prickly. He felt like he was going mad. Surely, this wasn't the way…he thought of all the blank faces in the kitchen, Ingrid's spread hands.

When Erik spread one long-fingered hand over Charles' thigh, Charles said the most outrageous thing he could think of to forestall him, "I can see your thoughts."

Erik tilted his chin down and smiled. "I don't suppose I'm being subtle."

"No, I mean," Charles struggled for words, while wondering what 'subtle' meant. "Think something, ask me."

Erik quirked one eyebrow, but he leaned back in his chair and obliged.

"The ship. Several ships, no wind…rowing." Charles sputtered quickly, stumbling over the word 'rowing'.

Erik sat up straighter and his thoughts swirled in a kaleidoscope until one swelled larger than the others. Charles blinked. "A church, burning. Lots of silver. Monks don't fight." Charles shuddered involuntarily. "A deer, big…antlers on a high hill, sunset."

Erik knocked his helmet off the table and stared at Charles for a second before leaning over to pick it up. "How do you…?"

"I always can." Charles gripped his cup tightly to keep from wringing his hands. "It's harder with more people around. Sometimes words, not…visions." He expected that any second now, Erik's eyes would shutter, Charles would be bound again, dragged away and this would all be over.

"That's wonderful." Erik was smiling. "Can you turn it around?"

"I don't understand." Charles bit his lip, confused. The warm pool of Erik's affection felt like it was growing even wider. And deeper.

"You can see people's thoughts. Can you change their thoughts? Push back at them?" Erik's voice was tight and his heart was jumping, but his thoughts were still benign, if excited.

"I don't know." Charles almost whispered. "I try before, but…" He had a sudden flash of memory: the angry booming voice and dark brows of their priest, his mother's soft hands hard around his wrists. "I can. It's difficult."

Erik's eyes glittered. "You should practice."

Charles' mouth literally fell open. "You…I…you don't think I'm a witch?"

Erik's face darkened at that, suddenly his thoughts were spiky with anger and he almost snarled, "You are who you are."

Charles didn't quite cringe, but Erik hitched his chair closer and said more evenly. "I don't think you're a witch. But this will be our secret, yes?"

Charles nodded and some perverse, incautious impulse made him babble, "But if I can change your thoughts, maybe **you** will be **my** slave."

Erik spread his hand on Charles' thigh again. The heat spreading from his touch made Charles itch all over. "What makes you think I'm not already?"

Charles was opening his mouth to say _I don't understand_ when Erik cupped his chin and tilted his face up for a kiss. Charles closed his eyes as the strange lethargy washed over him. Erik's fingers brushing his collarbone, Erik's nose nudging his jaw, Erik's thumb stroking his mouth; he found himself almost in Erik's lap without being conscious of moving.

Shameful as it was, it felt good. He didn't struggle when Erik lifted him then pushed him down onto the furs. Erik's hands scorched Charles' waist, peeling his leggings off. Erik's mouth on his neck chased all rational thought away. Charles tightened his hands in the furs and just gave himself up to the sensations…now he was floating, not drowning.

Erik pulled back onto his knees, licking the edges of his teeth, the long locks of his hair cascading down to his nipples.

Erik's mind was full of what he wanted to do and Charles wavered between alarm and acquiescence. Each of Erik's thoughts seemed more outrageous than the last and after a few moments, Charles realized that Erik was pausing, casting his eyes up to enjoy Charles' wide-eyed astonishment that someone might do _**that**_, willingly put their mouth _**there**_.

And quickly Charles had trouble ordering his own thoughts. He crammed his fist in his mouth to muffle his most undignified moans, but Erik wasn't having it, was teasing at his wrist and whispering, "Come on now, I can't read _your_ mind. Tell me how it feels."

"Is _**this**_…" Charles felt the tears prickle and he pulled back as far as he could to suck in a deep breath of cooler air that wasn't Erik-scented. "Is this…witchcraft?"

Erik tightened his hands around Charles' thighs; his teeth were set edge to edge. The slight curl of anger through his want was like a single fingernail running down Charles' spine.

"What is this?" Charles spread both hands over Erik's shoulders, like he could draw the answers out of him. "I never feel…this…before."

Erik's feelings were suddenly a wild cacophony instead of the steady thrum and hum of not-quite-hunger. Charles could feel shame and wonder and sadness and joy and some other things that he couldn't identify. Erik pulled back from him and swallowed. And suddenly Charles saw himself in Erik's mind. Seeing himself through the prism of Erik's desire felt like he'd suddenly sprouted wings and he would never have to place a heavy foot on the ground again.

"Relax." Erik was solid and hot between his legs, as solid and hot as Charles' own hard cock. "Stay easy."

Charles sobbed when Erik pressed inside him, even slick with oil it burned and prickled. Like the first time, he had to fight the impulse to struggle, the impulse to wrench away. This time he could see the flush spreading down Erik's chest, the intent pleasure in his face that looked like pain. Erik leaned forward and cupped his ass. The angles were all different and as he breathed out he could feel Erik's hands on his thighs, guiding his legs up. Charles relaxed his death grip on the pelts underneath him and grabbed Erik's forearms.

He could feel everything, feel that Erik had no desire to hurt or humiliate him. But then Erik would have…it never occurred to Erik that Charles might refuse or rebel. It was his nature to take and not regret.

Erik stroked Charles' face and then reached down to squeeze his prick. He didn't move while he stroked Charles back to full hardness before he rocked into him, gentle but unrelenting. He paused again to guide Charles' legs up, higher around his waist.

Charles thought of Ingrid's assessment. _Maybe by the fourth time…_

He tightened up, crossed his ankles around Erik's back, bit his lower lip and let Erik's pleasure flood him utterly.

The warriors were going to leave again. Preparing for an expedition seemed to be a village-wide endeavor. Charles was supposed to clean and fill the waterskins. Venturing up to the clearest part of the stream put him next to the tree line. After the third trip, he gave into his impulse, glanced around for any stray eyes and then started walking up the hill, headed east.

By the tenth step he was already lecturing himself about being an idiot. He had no food…but then he would freeze to death long before he got the opportunity to starve to death. Or he would be killed by a bear. Or crack his head open in a fall maybe, the ridge was getting ever steeper. By the time he reached the top, walking was just a habit he couldn't seem to break.

It was quiet up here, peaceful. Far away from the discordant mélange of other people's thoughts and feelings. This was like one of his few pilgrimages out to the woods, an opportunity to visit with Raven. He had a moment of missing her so fiercely; it was like an arrow in his chest.

It occurred to him that this was how he had always used to feel. In his village, he'd had a routine that only exposed him to familiar thoughts, familiar emotions. They had become a constant murmur in the background, only occasionally rising to a pitch he could hear. He'd been left to his precious books and figures, far away from the squawking, messy human commotion.

But now he had six squabbling sisters in the kitchens, Gudrun's motherly calm to cling to and the occasional terrified fascination of thoughts that were wholly alien to a merchant's spoiled son. Men made for war didn't think like farmers or priests. And their women had all manner of strange considerations to occupy them.

He found a tree that seemed to be covered with tiny, tart apples. He picked a few handfuls and put them into an artistic pile while he sat and thought. Where was he going to go? What did they do to runaways? Not one of the thralls had ever mentioned the ghost of the idea. Maybe flogging. Would it be Erik wielding a lash?

Imagining that made him feel strange. It was too close to thoughts of Erik sans tunic, flushed, sweating. If he stayed out here, would Erik come looking for him? Snatch him up and carry him back again, throw him down on the bed and…

Charles stood up and brushed off his tunic. He flipped one edge up to hold the apples. The sun was filtering through the trees making the scent of the firs tickle his nose. It was easier to trudge down than scramble up.

Erik met him when he was two clearings away from the stream where he'd left the waterskins.

"All good?" Erik looked calm, but his thumb was twitching, hooked into his belt. Under a thin husk of anger, Erik was deeply, deeply relieved and Charles felt the rush of all Erik's panicked fantasies: Charles frozen, starving, eaten by a bear, maimed in a fall.

"Apples." Charles returned shortly, handing him one. Erik nodded.

Gudrun used the apples to stuff two pigs. It was a generous feast, but no one drank too deeply. Late that night, Erik stoked the fire so he could do some last minute preparation, even while he waved Charles into bed. Charles fidgeted, restless.

"What are you doing?" Charles was finally moved to ask. It looked like Erik was…

"Braiding my hair." Erik said matter-of-factly. He finished the left side and started plaiting the right.

Charles watched, mesmerized. "They are not saying…I mean, **calling** you Erik tonight."

Erik shrugged, tying off the braid with a leather thong. "Because when we sail I'm not Erik Járnangan." He swung his head so the braids flicked his shoulders. "I'm Erik den Uroerlige."

Charles repeated the awkward moniker. "Erik the…"

"Untouchable." Erik put on his helmet, straightened the nose guard and grinned at Charles. In a flash Erik was death incarnate and his braids looked fierce, not foolish. His grin was the lethal sharp curve of an axe. Then Erik pulled off the helmet, rolled his shoulders sighing and was himself again.

Charles raised his eyebrows and tried to shrug off the sudden surge of terror. They had so many odd names: Harald the Hard, Ingvar the Restless, Vali the Blood Wolf…

"Why 'untouchable'?" After multiple visits to the bathhouse, Charles had vaguely noticed that Erik had far fewer scars than most of his contemporaries. Erik was fast, maybe too fast for the average spear or sword.

Erik gave him a speculative look and Charles felt that he was being weighed and measured. Erik leaned over and snatched up one of the knives they used to cut bread and then discarded it in favor of the one they used to cut meat.

He handed it to Charles, hilt first. Charles felt a flicker of apprehension but he took the knife.

Erik smirked at him and clasped his hand around Charles' fist. Then he shoved himself forward onto the blade while Charles yelped in alarm and attempted to snatch his hand away. "God's bones, don't…"

Erik stood back, smiling. Charles couldn't stop himself running his palm over Erik's unmarked ribs. He gaped at the knife still clutched in his hand which had…melted. It wasn't recognizable as the blade he'd used to dice venison that afternoon. While Charles watched, Erik teased the blade back into shape, smoothing the edge out sharp with his thumb.

_So that's why he doesn't have a whetstone, _Charles thought absurdly.

"You like me, I think." Erik grinned at Charles' flabbergasted face. "A little bit."

Charles looked down to where he was still stroking Erik's chest for reassurance. "Maybe." He pulled his hand away shyly.

It seemed like they were gone a long time even though it was only two tens of days. Charles thought he would easily go back to his solitary state, enjoy an empty bed. While he was alone with plenty of time to poke at his own thoughts and feelings the lengthening northern night seemed long and unfriendly. One night he woke up before the cocks started crowing and discovered that he could see people's dreams if he tried: bizarre and dizzying displays that left him unsettled and grateful for the dawn.

He began making a game of how far he could follow someone's thoughts, how he could zero in on one person in a group. There was a thrall who plowed and hauled grain whose mind was so quiet that Charles spent a day just waiting for an idea or observation to float through his silent brain.

He'd asked Gudrun about the man and she'd spent a moment casting about for the right word. Gudrun dealt mostly in quantities of things and she was sometimes at a loss to describe qualities. "One of the innocent ones. A good worker, though." Charles had a moment of envy for a mind so supremely untroubled. And then he felt strange.

"What does 'slut' mean?" He asked Ingrid one day while they were milling. They spent hours milling; the stream wasn't deep enough to turn a wheel.

"Why Charles…whoever is being so unkind to you?" She laughed quietly into her collar and he returned her grin. Solveig had hissed the epithet at Tova earlier, but Charles hadn't got the sense of it from her.

"Dirty." Ingrid shrugged one shoulder. "Indiscriminate."

Charles gave her a look which indicated his feelings about a person who defined a word with a harder word.

She rolled her eyes. "When you like it too much, or just too much with the wrong person…or with lots of people."

"It?" He tried to follow along.

"You know…" Ingrid's thoughts often had startling clarity. The picture in her mind made Charles drop his pestle and apologize, knocking over the grindstone with his knee. She laughed and helped him sweep up, still trying to explain over his protests that _no, he really did understand perfectly now_.

"Has anyone…" Ingrid's kind frown made Charles' throat tighten. She was so unfailingly cheerful despite everything; it made him feel like an ass.

"No, I just…hear." Charles wished he could clap his hands over his ears, they had to be giving him away by glowing red.

"Not very polite." But she was grinning, delighted.

Ulfbearth was a huge man. His fist was the size of Charles' head. He was spattered with scars like freckles, tiny burns from the splash of liquid metal. But his smile was infectious and his enormous hands could be surprisingly clever.

Most people wouldn't have found the smith a very restful place. All it seemed to offer was constant clangor and heat. But Charles had now made three deliveries on Solveig's behalf and each time he was invited to stay for a little. Ulfbearth would give his apprentice a break and show Charles his treasures.

His broad, bovine face gave no hint that his mind was a wonderland of ingenuity. Charles could bask in Ulfbearth's mind in the same way someone else would have held out their hands to his fire. Ulfbearth didn't seem overly troubled by the darker emotions that crowded Charles all the time in the village proper. No hot thrum of lust or cold, sharp-edged fear. Charles could have stayed all afternoon.

The fire burned so hot it was almost white. In its light, the fantastical armor, the fabulous weaponry gleamed at him and he could almost see Erik's smile reflected in their numinous shine. Erik had touched each one of these things, Charles could tell; there was no way that Ulfbearth for all his cleverness could have finessed the delicate chasing and engraving.

"You sell?" Charles asked diffidently.

"We trade mostly." Ulfbearth's eyes squinted when he grinned. "Bride gifts too. Our women are more precious than gold."

"Beautiful." Charles admitted. Bride gift must mean dowry.

"Watch this." Ulfbearth picked up a helmet that seemed eggshell-thin and slammed it into one of the posts that held the roof up. He brandished it at Charles until Charles took it. Charles marveled at the gleaming surface still untouched, the metal so light and yet strong.

"What makes…this?" Charles fruitlessly sought the right words.

Ulfbearth understood him anyway. "Iron is strong, but it needs…" He said a word that Charles didn't understand but Charles got the picture of the dark stone-like stuff while the smith nattered on. "…then it's lighter; it gives a little, it doesn't crack. I experimented a lot with the proportions until I met Erik Járnangan. He can make it so it doesn't even rust."

"Has he always…helped you?" Charles asked, trying to acknowledge obliquely what Ulfbearth had hinted. "Since he is child?"

Ulfbearth shrugged. "Den Uroerlige was never a child, I think. He has only been here for…six, maybe seven winters?"

"Oh." Charles wondered how many people knew the truth of Erik's power. How many people sensed it as just a vague unease. Ulfbearth wasn't just big physically...his mind was bigger, roomier because of his lack of fear.

"Why does he not…" Charles cast about for the word. "Apprentice? You have so much…" Charles indicted the pig iron, the heaps of base metals piled into the corners of the shed sitting orphaned and useless. Erik could easily spend weeks here, making wondrous things.

Ulfbearth frowned. He was as obviously as puzzled as Charles, but not seeing the problem. "He likes to sail, go find new. We have all winter to work."

Charles swallowed, wondering if Ulfbearth knew exactly what Erik's 'finding new' entailed.

Ulfbearth continued, dispelling Charles' doubt. "Besides, he prefers making war to making…" He ran a finger over chainmail that was delicate as filigree.

"What is in here?" Charles spoke to cover his dismay. He tapped a large chest with an ornate lock.

"Woman things." Ulfbearth flipped the latch up and opened the chest with a flourish. Stacks of torques and bracelets, ornate and dazzling. Charles traced his finger over a brass cuff engraved with a stylized raven. The metal wasn't particularly fine, but the bird's details were captured perfectly in miniature.

"A gift for a lover, perhaps?" Ulfbearth waggled his bushy brows until Charles had to chuckle.

"Just the thing." Charles agreed. "If I had a lover." The word felt as odd in his mouth as the idea was in his head.

Ulfbearth threw back his head to laugh and for once, Charles could forget himself and laugh too.

Charles felt Solveig's alarm while he was chopping wood. He had been watching the sun, waiting for the particular light that meant suppertime when he heard her anxious mental plea. He stuck the axe into a stump and sidled up to the corner of the woodpile.

On the lee side of the longhouse, Brand had her by both elbows and he hulked over her by a broad margin. Brand was Hrafnkel's close-cousin and older, too old to be leaping in and out of a longboat. His Viking days were over and he spent most of his time drinking, talking and carving the odd bit of wood. But he was still built like an oak tree and Solveig's thin arms looked like twigs in his grip.

Charles couldn't hear what he was muttering but Brand's thoughts were a roiling wave of that dark, almost-hunger. As she shrank from him, he shook her until her teeth clicked and snarled, 'come on, you insolent slut.'

A piercing shaft of pure rage struck Charles like a lightning bolt. Fury made his hands tingle and he gulped down a sour mouthful of bile. The thought leapt from his mind: _**stop**_.

Brand froze and Charles could dimly feel that his heart had stopped beating. Charles sucked in a breath and pulled his thoughts back enough so that blood began to rush again. Charles thought _you are very sleepy. _Brand crumpled, his hands loosening from Solveig. In a moment, he was a heap in the courtyard, snoring like the grind of a whetstone.

Solveig blinked and turned to catch Charles' eye. He was breathing hard like he'd been running, and the wash of his own strong emotion kept stealing the good from the air. He had only felt such pure and perfect anger once before. The injustice of it all still rankled and made his mouth twist with bitterness.

Solveig nudged her tormentor's shoulder with one toe. She looked up at Charles. "You did this. Somehow."

He didn't acknowledge her. She didn't seem to be fearful. Her eyes were wide, but from awe, not fright. Charles thought of the helmet Ulfbearth had shown him, delicate-looking but strong. "How…Why did you do this? For me?"

"Not fair." Charles tried to explain. He couldn't begin to explain. "Call you slut when you can't choose anyway."

Solveig swallowed. "I…that… Thank you."

"Come on." Charles looked toward the kitchen. "It's time to eat."

He had wasted almost all the darkness on his first evening alone, twisting around in the covers, either too hot or too cold. He tried sleeping in his tunic so that the fur wouldn't tickle his over-heated skin. Scent clung to fur and it was too much, welling cascades of memories made him feel half-mad. The trickle of sweat in the crease where his thigh met his hip made him clench his teeth and strip off his tunic, undershirt and leggings until he was bare. And he was still too hot.

He finally gave up and pressed his flat palm to his hard cock.

He thought of every time Erik had wrapped his arms around him and half-pushed, half-carried him to bed. How Erik would tighten his hands in Charles' hair and hold him, kissing all over his face until Charles gave in and kissed back.

Charles swiped the beads of sweat from his temples.

Erik took Charles in his mouth often, even though Charles had explored everyone else's head very thoroughly and discovered how deeply taboo that was. But it wasn't the wash of almost painful ecstasy that Charles remembered clearly but the moment when he was twitching and gasping and sweating and Erik would press his chin into the skin two inches below Charles' belly button and grin up at him before placing a kiss there. Whatever Erik did next, Charles always remembered that moment.

Temptation was easy to resist if you never subjected yourself to it. Charles thought wryly of the Greek scholars he had read and their advice on the subject. He could count on both hands the times he'd done this since his voice had changed. It had been difficult and unsatisfying without a locus for his imagination. Back in his village he'd done this to fill a physical need without knowing just quite what it was for.

Now his nipples tightened of their own accord when he buried his face in Erik-scented fur. He cupped his cock and fingered his balls gently as he rolled onto his chest. He spread his legs wide and rolled his hips; there was no one here to see him acting so wanton. He imagined where Erik would be touching him now. Tried to conjure up the warmth of Erik's appreciation until the shame of it made him grit his teeth.

His body had grown accustomed to a certain kind of use and now he felt…superfluous. Empty and waiting.

He stilled for a moment and tried to cool himself down by imagining Erik as he was when he'd left. Almost unrecognizable under the flapping raven banner, the two braids under his helmet, his polished axe on his waist, a wolf pelt bristling over his armor. Endless buckles: braces, greaves, breastplate, sword hilt, quiver of arrows. Seax and spear made Erik all hard edges and sharp points.

Charles dug his chin into the bed and mentally started unbuckling. In his mind he unbound the braids and unwrapped the leggings. Underneath, Erik was still hard, but not sharp.

The ships churned the water to froth under the frantic pull of so many oars. They'd had three hours to prepare for arrival from the first sighting at the top of the bay. Charles had felt their minds hours before that.

The longboats had been spotted deep in midafternoon, but by the time the flurry of arrival and unloading was done, Charles' belly was growling. He hadn't snatched enough bites off of Tova's platters before he'd been press-ganged into unloading what felt like an endless parade of treasures.

Now they were feasting and Charles was settled in a crouch a little behind and to the left of Erik. Close enough to fill his plate or eat off it. For a long while, it seemed like he did nothing but pass tankards back to be filled. Erik waited until practically everyone was drunk and shouting before turning to start a low conversation.

"Did you miss me?" Erik's eyes glittered manically; he seemed fierce with excitement and full of mead. "Did you worry about me?"

"Yes, I missed you." Charles said evenly. "Yes, I worried. If you didn't come back, I'm on the short list for Freya, remember?"

Erik grinned while wincing. "And that's the only reason?"

"Yes." But Charles couldn't stop himself from flushing. The hall was hot, filled with bodies. That was all.

"I don't think you're telling the truth." Erik stroked one finger lightly over the inside of Charles' wrist.

_I am_. Charles thought peevishly. Erik blinked at him and thought clearly. _Well then we can leave and you can sleep easy knowing I'm safe. _

Charles inclined his head with frosty politeness and waited for Erik to lead the way. Back in Erik's house, Charles nearly tripped on the edge of Erik's shield which had slipped from its hook. He couldn't keep from banging it a little when he hung it back up. He hadn't expected that seeing Erik again would make him feel so very like a grumpy hedgehog.

He didn't want to sit down. He wanted to run for a league. Or punch Erik in the face, maybe. He contented himself with feeding the fire until it blazed.

"You speak better now." Erik held up a hand and made a strange gesture. After a moment, Charles realized Erik was making shadows on the wall, a wolf's head, a fluttering bird.

"I do lots of thing better now." Charles returned shortly, refusing to find Erik charming in the least.

"Yes, I…" Erik toyed with the broken leather handle of his mug. "I can see that. Tell me."

"I can salt-cure herring." Charles folded his arms and leaned back against the door.

Erik turned sideways on his chair. Charles could feel that Erik was quite aware of Charles' anger and it puzzled him. Naturally, that just made Charles angrier.

"That's useful." Erik said finally. Charles hit him.

Or at least he would have, if Erik hadn't grabbed his wrist. Quick as thought, Erik grabbed Charles' other wrist before Charles could even consider having another go. Erik was standing now, looking down at Charles warily.

"Why are you…?" Erik started and Charles bit down as hard as he could on Erik's upper arm. Erik yelped and jerked away. Charles managed to land a blow right under his ribs, gratified to see Erik recoil. Erik was handicapped because he didn't want to hurt Charles, but Charles felt no such compunction.

Erik blocked another blow with his forearm and closed with Charles quickly. Erik grabbed both his wrists and twisted around until Charles was bound with his own arms jerked tight against his ribs. Erik stayed behind him, even as Charles writhed and cursed at him. Erik pulled hard, holding him so tightly that it felt like Charles' elbow would break.

There was a moment while Charles contemplated how satisfying it might feel to convince Erik that Erik was, in fact, a six year old girl. But Erik's thoughts were so genuinely bemused by Charles' rage that Charles couldn't go through with it.

"If you can't say, show me." Erik panted in his ear. He twisted so Charles couldn't stomp on his feet. Charles snapped his teeth at him, furious and impotent. Erik just held him until Charles' heart slowed. After a moment, Charles struggled away and Erik let him go. Charles ran his hands through his hair repeatedly, splashed water on his beet-red face.

He felt stupid now, childish. He couldn't begin to articulate what was wrong. The whole damn world was wrong. But Erik was just looking at him, breathing hard but still calm. Erik held out his hand tentatively.

Charles took Erik's hand in his own.

He brushed Erik's knuckles over the ghost of the lump on the side of his head and pushed his thoughts outward. He tried to make Erik feel his more intimate pain and he thought very clearly _you said you weren't going to hurt me, but you did._

It worked. Erik's hand jerked and he clasped Charles tighter. Erik cocked his head and his eyes widened. He pressed his lips to Charles' knuckles. Then he raised his chin and the thoughts and feelings rolled back into Charles, ice-clear and vivid. _Anguish and nausea, as his mother burns alive for witchcraft and he is beaten back by a mob of wooden staves and left for dead in a sucking, freezing bog. Living for years like an animal until he has wandered far enough and grown strong enough to be useful again. The scar on his thigh sears alight, he can see the flint-tipped arrow protruding from his chest, feels the hot agony of a stone adze cleaving his shoulder. Fighting always, until his savagery gains some skill. Fearful eyes follow him everywhere he goes. His knuckles broken and reknit until his hands feel like hammers, his ribs broken until every breath brands him berserker. Iron can't touch him, but Erik has never known a day free of pain and it does nothing, it means nothing._

Charles came back to himself almost sobbing aloud. Erik withdrew his consciousness and looked at him steadily. By the time Charles got his breath back, he understood.

By his lights, Erik hadn't hurt Charles hardly at all.

Charles woke first, shivering. He had tossed and turned himself to the edge of the bed, halfway out of their pile of furs. He slid back into their warm cover delicately, not wanting to miss the opportunity to watch Erik sleep.

Soon Erik would wake up and then maybe he might want to…do what he liked. Charles rolled onto his elbow and sighed at himself. Fuck. _Fucking._ That's what it was. There was no point in being so coy in his own head and, for that matter he liked it too. He gave himself a little mental slap.

Erik hadn't touched him after he'd pulled his hand away last night. They'd both been silenced by their respective revelations. Charles tried to recapture that feeling of being transported, enlightened, stretched too large to fit into his own skin because otherwise he was lying here, half hard while suppressing the urge to twine his hand in Erik's hair and lick the broad line of Erik's mouth.

_Wake up_, Charles thought. It was still a surprise when Erik opened his eyes and blinked at him. Erik stretched hard and groaned. Charles noticed what looked like a deep arch of a puncture wound in Erik's upper arm and was almost moved to ask before he realized that he'd done that with his teeth. The memory made him blush.

Erik raised his head and looked at Charles. Then he washed his hand over his face and rocked up out of the bed. He scooped himself a mugful of water while gesturing vaguely to make the iron poker freshen up the fire. He didn't look at Charles again.

Well, this was a problem.

For some reason, some deep animal part of him was growling and fidgeting, not content with solely mental contact. But if Erik didn't take him, Charles didn't have a way to ask for what he wanted. It was so infuriating that it made his teeth itch.

He tried arching his back languidly. He sighed loudly as he stretched and the covers bunched at his hips.

Not even a glance.

Charles steeled himself to stand up and stretch at the foot of the sleeping platform. Usually he'd already half-dressed before he emerged from the furs in deference to his shyness and the chill. Charles thought of Ingrid's words and turned away to roll his lower lip under his teeth. He tried to look nonchalant as he slowly drew on his leggings and left them half unlaced, caught on the peaks of his hipbones.

He brushed past Erik to get to the back door to relieve himself. Erik seemed to be working up a proper brood, waiting for the water in the pot to boil. Charles stood under the eaves to piss, squinting up at the sky. It was going to rain all day. The long feathers of trees were wreathed in mist.

Charles ducked out to stand in the rain for several long moments until he had to hold himself tightly to keep from shivering. He tripped back inside and leaned over Erik's shoulder to serve himself from the pot of porridge. Erik flinched when Charles dripped on him.

"It's going to rain all day." Charles said around a mouthful of the hot gruel. Hopefully the sight of him half-dressed, wet and gleaming, with his nipples tight and his cheeks flushed would put Erik in the right frame of mind.

Erik was looking at him finally and…there, there was a touch of the right feeling buried deep underneath Erik's broodiness. It was like a tiny flame Charles would have to stoke up.

He pushed his wet hair back up off his face, considering. He took another mouthful of food, sucking hard on his wooden spoon. He widened his eyes innocently at Erik's narrowed gaze.

"I can see…" Erik tilted his head and raised one eyebrow. "…your thoughts."

"Hmmmm." Charles hummed airily. When Erik stood up and traced one hand over his collarbone, he leaned into it.

"Is your plan to get me off guard so you can bite me again?" Erik asked with only the faintest edge of humor. He squeezed Charles' hair at the nape of his neck, wringing the rain out.

Charles turned to hook two fingers into the laces of Erik's leggings. "Let's find out."

After two kisses, Erik grew eager again, tasting him open-mouthed and catching his teeth on Charles' edges. Charles realized abruptly that Erik hadn't had the occasional opportunities for release that he had enjoyed. It made Erik almost awkward with need and made Charles feel powerful and rapacious.

He didn't want to move the four steps that would have taken them to the bed. Shifting his weight allowed him to sit on the table and he could hook both legs around Erik's thighs. Erik's long fingers traced over his ribs. Erik's mouth was hard and hungry as he mouthed at Charles' shoulder, and he was slightly flesh-crazed, barely keeping himself from biting down hard.

Charles bit the underside of Erik's jaw, taking a deep lungful of his scent. Erik growled into his hairline and greedily pushed himself deep into Charles' arms. Charles rubbed his face against the slight smattering of hair on Erik's chest, basking in the heat of Erik's unrelenting want. He could stoke it; make it stronger with a touch.

Erik started when Charles traced a thumb over Erik's hipbone and slinked a hand into his leggings. There was a hot, hard need in Erik's head, more expansive than the one between his legs. Charles made a play from an idea he'd gotten from Ingrid's head, cupping his hand over Erik's sensitive bits while he licked and breathed into his ear.

At the deepest, basest level, there were no words in the mind. Going deep enough, there weren't even any visions, no memories, just animal craving clear and unequivocal. Erik's eyes were almost empty when he raised them to Charles', dazed and stupid with his need. His lower lip was wet.

Charles drew his hand up, a long stroke up Erik's cock. He was a little clumsy but Erik still moaned like Charles was pulling something out of him, some painful demon of desire. Charles caught his own lower lip in his teeth and concentrated, feeling his cheeks go hot. He was accustomed to Erik's cock between his thighs, pressed against his belly or his back, deep inside him in places he couldn't reach.

It felt weirdly intimate to have it in his hand, to be making Erik sigh and gasp in the way that Erik made him cry out so casually when he did this to Charles. Charles was a fast learner… and he could savor every nuance of Erik's gratification.

"I'm…" One of Erik's eyes screwed shut and his hand tightened on Charles' arm. Charles breathed hard through his nose, triumphant, when Erik came apart, wet on his fingers and belly. He could feel Erik's thighs trembling between his own.

It was unexpected when Erik sighed and shoved the bowls away, pushing Charles supine on the table and just collapsing on top of him. Charles grunted under the sudden weight. He could still breathe comfortably, if kind of shallowly. It was oddly pleasant for some reason. Erik was so loose, Charles had to grab a fistful of his hair and pull before Erik would raise his head from where it was smushed into the wood by his shoulder.

"You…" Erik's eyes still didn't focus. He wasn't too heavy, but the table was hard.

"You need more sleep?" Charles tilted his chin up and tried to look innocent and unmoved, like a good slave, a docile thrall. "Can I do anyth-…?"

Erik growled and tightened his hand around the back of Charles' neck. He snaked an arm under Charles' back and would have scooped him up into an undignified carry but Charles twisted out of his grip just in time. Charles caught his balance halfway between the table and the bed.

Erik turned around and gripped the edge of the table tightly in his suddenly-empty hands and Charles could see his nostrils flare.

"I haven't…" This false solicitation worked a treat whenever Ingrid did it, her wide eyes so innocent. Charles tried to widen his own eyes, even though he felt a little ridiculous. "…displeased you, have I?"

One corner of Erik's mouth twisted up, but his mind was as clear and inexorable as a stream of water. Charles felt the thrum of his lust, reverberating like a vibration through the air as Erik stalked toward him. Charles steeled himself a little, digging his toes into the dirt floor. He was determined not to melt the moment Erik touched him. He tried to quash his smirk and a slight shudder of anticipation.

Unexpectedly, Erik dropped to his knees in front of Charles. He lifted Charles' left foot to rest on his thigh, stroking the underside with his thumb. It made Charles writhe involuntarily.

"This little game you're playing. It's fun but you know it's not…" Erik rested his cheek against Charles' thigh and looked up at him; his breath was very hot. "…necessary. I'll always do what you want."

Charles rolled his lower lip under his teeth, trying to keep from trembling while Erik stroked the back of his knee. "Not a game for me. I **have to** do what you want."

Erik opened his mouth to speak and then seemed to think better of it. He rubbed his eyebrow along Charles' thigh gently, rhythmically, delicately working Charles' leggings loose enough to press his lips against Charles' belly and take him in his mouth.

Scrabbling for balance, all Charles could find to hold was Erik's hair and his shoulder. Erik seemed to be pleasing himself more than Charles, he seemed to want just to taste, to lick not suck. The more Charles punished his lower lip and tried to hold back, the more Erik would cast his gaze up, eyes dark in the low light. His mouth was so wet. He held Charles at the base of his cock, forcing Charles' prick deep into his mouth, hard enough to make Erik's eyes stream.

"Please." Charles gasped finally. He was aching to come, his spine felt like a fountain of fire and his eyes stung. But it was like Erik was pushing him, goading him, misunderstanding simple cues until Charles had to grind his teeth and grab Erik's wrist.

"What do you want?" Erik pulled back but kept his hands in place. He was solid as an oak tree while Charles shook like a birch. "Show me what you want."

Charles stiffened and pressed clenched fists into his eye sockets, resisting the urge to bash his own head in frustration. Suddenly, Erik had him by the wrists; Erik was pressing a kiss into the high arch of Charles' eyebrow, bracing him up with one arm. Charles felt the gentle touch of Erik's lips on his forehead and just let his imagination loose in a flood.

_The unthinking, casual way that Erik took him, flipping him onto his stomach, setting his teeth in the back of Charles' neck and stroking him loose with his thumb and forefinger. The way Erik would coax him to hold his legs higher so Erik could lean down, braced on one hand to suck and bite at Charles' nipple. When Erik spread his hand, broad over Charles' belly and pressed him back against his thrusts, scratching his fingernails into the hair above Charles' cock. _

Charles pressed his tongue flat against the top of his mouth, breathing hard through his nose. Erik had stiffened against the flood of Charles' disgraceful thoughts and Charles couldn't bring himself to look at his face.

But Erik was spreading his hand over Charles' face, holding him in place for one deep kiss.

Charles didn't usually like to be kissed; it made him feel as if he was tottering on the edge of a cliff. Breathless and dizzy and on the verge of thin air. But this time, he didn't turn his face away, just let Erik in completely. It couldn't get much worse.

It wasn't fair. This man or one like him had killed his stepbrother. This man had taken him from his home with the singular purpose of raping him daily. But he hadn't fought, hadn't run. He was more at home here than he'd ever been. It was such a tangled web in his head that it almost hurt. _This_ _is what it is_, Charles thought, _to be human_.

With their faces pressed together, Charles felt Erik's delight deluging his shame. Charles yearned into Erik's uncomplicated mind. And then Erik tensed his grip around Charles' back, tightened his hand in Charles' hair and tumbled him onto the bed.

Erik slid over him, snaking his hand under Charles' arm and around to cup the back of Charles' neck. Erik bit him, gently, like it was just a taste. Charles found himself spreading his legs like it was a reflex as Erik growled wordlessly in his ear.

He gave himself over to the bone-deep, tingling heat as Erik held him down and fucked him. Charles threaded his fingers through Erik's and gasped into the fur as Erik stroked him like it was giving him pleasure just to touch Charles and make him moan.

Charles came so hard it made his ears ring. He drifted off into a deep sleep and woke much later to see Erik coming through the doorway with a bucket and more wood. It was still misting rain and Erik's bare chest gleamed in the low light before he kicked the door shut.

Charles swallowed. His throat was hoarse and he spared a moment to hope their nearest neighbors were all still sleeping it off in the great hall. Now that he'd spent, he felt angry again, whether at himself or Erik, he wasn't quite sure. He felt dirty and indiscriminate. He turned his face away, hoping that Erik couldn't read too much from his shoulders.

"You're cross again." Erik was trying to sound just resigned but Charles felt that he was slightly injured and wary. "I didn't think it was so bad."

Charles muttered into the bed. "Maybe I just don't like being your slut."

"What was that?" There was the hint of a warning in Erik's voice.

Charles sat up and shouted, "**Maybe I just don't want to be your SLUT**!"

It was reassuring to observe that Erik looked just as ridiculous as everyone else did when his jaw dropped. "My…" The peal of his laughter was loud. "You're not my…." But Charles caught the tiniest flicker of doubt.

Charles thought all the words he never said: _kidnapper, murderer, thief, rapist. _He thought very loudly.

"You want pretty words and promises, like a woman?" Erik turned cold then, his eyes shone like burnished coins and his cheekbones seemed to sharpen. "Stay here then. Make yourself useful."

Charles reached for his own tunic as Erik stormed out the door. While his heart was pounding, Charles didn't feel the way he'd expected to. He didn't feel the rush of fear like cold water spilled down his back.

Thinking of water, he shoved the poker deep into the fire until it was glowing red, then stuck it in the bucket Erik had brought until the water steamed. There was just enough to clean himself thoroughly. He made himself some hot food and settled back to wait.

He practiced.

Erik came back when the sun was gone, only slightly drunk. He slammed through the door like he'd fallen on it. He glared at Charles blearily, and then slumped into his chair. Erik's confusion was like low, discordant noise; Charles had to steel himself against it.

They sat in silence until two logs had been wholly consumed.

"I don't know why I took you." Erik said looking at the fire. "I shouldn't have. I should have put an arrow in your back and never looked at your face."

Barely three months gone, Charles thought. It felt like another life altogether, or a dream.

"But I did. When I first saw you, you looked so…fragile." Erik continued. "You were so pale with that bright red blood on your face like rubies."

It hadn't been his blood. Charles remembered being grabbed by a man who had been spurting long gouts of arterial blood. Charles had lowered him to the ground, held him for the moment while his life seeped away.

"Why did you…?" Charles started.

Erik spoke over him. "I wanted you, that's all. Like the sword, like the blanket, like these furs."

"I don't think you're telling the truth." Charles muttered low. He could feel Erik's anger in a hard bright sheen over some more unclear emotions.

"Fragile, you know what that means?" Erik slammed his hand down on the table. "You looked like anything in the world could've broken you. So I thought I **might as well** before anyone else did."

Erik's mind, normally so clear, was now awash in a murky haze. He stood up and moved closer to the fire like he couldn't bear to look at Charles any longer.

"You haven't broken me." Charles said. "Not even a little." _You made me stronger._

Erik thrust out his hand and Charles blinked at the blade hovering in front of his eye. With a flick of his fingers, Erik let it settle in the hollow of Charles' throat.

"If I could do what you can do, do you think I would suffer for a second?" Erik jeered. "You think I would let any man just do as he pleased with my life?"

The blade was under his chin, but he wasn't cut. The steel was warm; it was almost caressing his heartbeat. He tried to lean into it, but Erik kept it poised on his skin. "If I'm yours then…"

"You _**are**_ mine." Erik snarled. "And the reason you're mine is because you don't care enough to be your own. You could be stronger. You could **convince me otherwise**, if you wanted to."

Charles closed his eyes, took a deep breath and sent a tendril of influence into Erik's brain. This was delicate work. There was a fine line of control and it required a light touch. Erik's hand tightened and then loosened and the knife thumped on the floor. Charles held him frozen while Charles stepped away.

"See how it feels?" Charles said quietly. "When your body betrays your mind?"

Erik's eyes had widened marginally, deep and dark with pure panic.

"It's not very nice is it?" Charles tilted his head to the side and stroked one lock of hair off of Erik's face. "I could do just about anything to you now. I could make you open yourself up with that knife. I could get so deep in your head that I could make you **want** whatever I asked of you."

Erik strained bitterly hard against his mental bonds, but Charles held him easily. Forcing Erik's mind to submit made him wince with a tickle of vicious pleasure. He set his teeth against the feeling.

_Sit down_, Charles thought and Erik sat on the bed clumsily.

"Do you know how much easier my life would be if I could just despise you?" He tucked his fingers under Erik's ear, rubbing a circle into the smooth skin there. "What I'm doing to you now, you do it to me every day. Take away my will and still want the taking."

Erik's mind stopped battering against Charles' prison. He flicked his eyes up beseechingly.

"What? What can you possibly say to me?" Charles loosened his restraint just enough so that Erik could speak. He made Erik tilt his chin up and look him directly in the eye.

One silver liquid line, like quicksilver tracked down the side of Erik's face.

"I didn't know it would be like this. I never…never felt this before." Erik's voice came out like he'd taken several blows to the face.

Charles took a deep breath and sank down deep inside Erik past the sheen of anger that covered the fear. Down through the confusion to a warm, tentative feeling that Erik kept poking at then shying away from.

"I'm…I can't stop thinking about you. I try not to, but I'm…like a woman, like a thrall." Erik's head dropped when Charles released his hold. He felt a brush of Erik's gratitude that he no longer had to look up at Charles. Erik felt so terrified and pathetic; it was all Charles could do to keep himself from dropping to his knees and taking both of Erik's hands in his own.

He recognized the emotion, even though he hadn't seen it very often. The recognition of the back-and-forth dance made his mouth dry, the desire married to dread, fear wedded to joy. He recognized the twin feeling in himself. He relaxed his hold on Erik's mind with a firm suggestion that Erik should sleep.

Charles stared at the fire, rubbing his thumb over his knuckles. He flexed his fingers and turned his palm up to stroke over his new calluses. His hands were so hard now.

He knew Erik wasn't awake enough to hear him as a deep and traitorous part of his mind confessed_ I am yours._

"I keep forgetting." Erik thrust a bundle of leather at Charles. "This is for you."

Charles unwrapped the bundle with an equal measure of pleasure and apprehension. "A gift?"

"A reward." Erik nudged his shoulder.

The seax was curved in a wide crescent, not the typical bowed shape. It was beautiful and perfectly deadly.

He didn't have to ask if the blade was plunder. It was obvious that Erik had made this; it was too thin and too sharp to have ever been forged in a normal fashion. Looking at it, Charles was aware that this was a gift (reward) that didn't just mean something to Erik, this was a gift that **meant something.**

"It's..." Charles tried to be diplomatic. "You know they don't let thralls carry…"

Erik was already rolling his eyes. "So you don't have to carry it or they don't have to **see it**, one. You can decide."

Erik thought _I know you can do that. _And it was true. Charles had kept everyone from noticing Tova's romance with one of the other thralls for two weeks now. Keeping other people's attention diverted was the easiest thing in the world.

Charles held it up to his eye level. Vikings usually used swords, axes and sometimes hammers. A seax was the weapon of his own people, sturdy, serviceable, easy to wield. The balance was so perfect; it was like it belonged in his hand. "You break all the rules, Erik Járnangan."

Erik titled his chin down, but didn't smile. Charles could sense Erik's desire for a more hands-on thank you. He set his new weapon carefully aside to spread a hand over Erik's shoulder and oblige him.

"Why the raven banner?" Charles watched the sailors from the shade of the tree line. Preparing a longboat to ride out the winter took a dozen men almost all day. "It's not very fierce. Why not a wolf or a…dragon?"

Erik snorted. "Hrafnkel's idea. We are beloved of ravens."

Charles sent Erik a vision of a field of corpses picked over by carrion crows.

Erik snorted again and shook his head. "For us, a raven means wisdom. Justice."

"It puts me in mind of my sister." Charles mused.

Erik straightened up so suddenly, he nearly bashed his head on a low-hanging branch. "You have a sister?"

"Adopted sister." Charles admitted.

Erik paused for a long moment and his thoughts were wretched. "Was she…?"

Charles shook his head. "She'd left the village."

"She got married?" Erik seemed to sense that there was a story. Something in Charles' tone must have piqued his interest; it wasn't like him to surmise.

"No." Charles sighed. "After she was woman-grown, she was…" God, he'd never understood this before, he had a sudden burst of insight and empathy. "She let her attention waver. She was in the barn with her first suitor and she... It took everything I had to keep them from burning her alive." The memory of it still made his throat ache and his head hurt. The booming voice of their priest still echoed in his ears, his mother's pleas and cries. Charles had thought so hard, his nose had bled.

Erik frowned and pursed his lips. "That seems…harsh."

Coming from a Viking, Charles reflected, that was a sterner judgment than usual.

"My sister is…" Charles was suddenly at a loss for words. "Blue."

Erik pointed at the sky. "You know that means…"

"Yes." Charles sighed again. "I know what I'm saying."

"She's like…one of the Painted People?" Erik was crouched down now, his eyes sparkled with interest.

"No. She's a shapeshifter." For some reason, saying this to Erik didn't make him feel as ridiculous as he expected. Charles reached over and stroked a thumb down Erik's cheek, putting a vision of Raven in her truest form in his head. Erik's eyes widened and he clutched at Charles' vision, demanding more details.

"She could be…anyone?" Erik breathed after a moment.

Charles nodded. "She could be you. She could be me. She could've been King Ethelred, if she'd ever seen him. Every detail perfect, even down to the smell."

"That's…" Erik smiled widely. "I'd very much like to meet your sister."

"Yes, well…good luck." Charles said bitterly. "They tried tracking her for weeks after she ran and never found a trace. Our best hunters said she must've gone back to the Sidhe."

He remembered how stealthy he'd had to be, sneaking away with bread and hard cheese when she'd left him a signal. Risking both their lives for a few moments together, his sister, his only equal. Lost to him forever.

"I don't understand what that means." Erik settled down on the cold ground. "Couldn't you just…trace her thoughts?"

"From here?" Charles frowned. "You are joking."

"Have you ever tried?" Erik poked his foot at Charles' shin.

Charles stared at him a moment. "You remind me of her sometimes. She always wanted me to…be more than I was."

"You have the power of a god." Erik sat up, leaned forward. "If you would trust yourself."

Charles combed his fingers through the grass idly. "Raven said I would never know power until I was brave enough to look into people's hearts."

"So she's as wise as she is beautiful." Erik was looking at the horizon as if he could sharpen his eyes enough to see the shadow of Charles' home.

Charles bit his lower lip. It hadn't occurred to him to think of Raven as beautiful before. She just…was.

"I think you are that brave." Erik said suddenly. Then he smiled. "Or…when you** feel** you are, we'll take one of those…" He pointed out at the beached longboats. "And go find your sister."

"What…like steal a ship?" Charles coughed a laugh. "Just you and me?"

Erik shook his head still grinning. "You could convince a few others to crew. Wouldn't be too hard."

"We'd never find her." But Charles could feel the hard edges of his own doubt.

Erik shrugged, relaxed in his conviction. "I'm a good hunter."

Charles blinked. Saying the words aloud was powerful magic. It almost felt possible. "We could…go tomorrow."

At that, Erik laughed. "Maybe practice a little more first." He pointed at the top of the bay where the clouds were massing, gray shading to black. "Plus, with all our skill neither of us can control the weather."

Walking through the great hall when it was full of drunk and boisterous men and boys was like navigating particularly rocky terrain. Charles usually kept to the edges if he could. It was easier now that he could isolate thoughts, feelings, follow all the disparate threads. Uncover secret motivations like paging through a book. It was better than a book.

He caught Solveig's eye as she moved through with a jug. She flicked her eyes up to the head of the table and her mind asked a question. Charles paused next to one of the ornately carved support posts so they could exchange what passed for a private word.

"He's walking on a narrow bridge tonight." She canted her shoulder to where Erik sat in court next to a man half his size again and Hrafnkel, flanked by a dozen warriors of varying sizes and ferocity. Erik was saying something that made a couple of them grin, but more of them looked uncertain and a few were scowling. "Poking a few bears with his sharp tongue."

Charles didn't make a face but simply shifted his weight so he could see without being noticed. "Isn't that what he always does?"

"This is a dangerous time." Solveig didn't look directly at him. She was trying to swallow her impatience and he appreciated it.

"More than usual?" He kept his own eyes scanning the room for potential threats.

"They're settling down for the cold, but they're not _settled_ down, you see?" She flicked her gaze at him and sent him a vision of a dozen fights in quick succession. Old grievances about plunder, women, or any perceived slight sharpened now when they didn't have the prospect of a voyage to distract them.

Now their lust and hunger was sated from a few days at home. The deepest wounds had been tended and they had the time and energy to make trouble. The change in season made the sap rise.

Charles felt a sudden heat along his back and shoulder, a livid brush of itchy, sticky jealousy. But it wasn't coming from Solveig for a change. He dared a peripheral glance and smothered a grin.

Charles muttered. "What do you want me to do?" Gudrun was gesturing to him from the doorway.

Solveig looked at him sharply. "You do what you like. I'm just….why are you smiling?" Her voice had tightened with suspicion.

"He's uh, jealous." Charles couldn't look her in the eye, but he felt her straighten. Erik's feelings practically oozed on the floor now. Charles covered a chuckle with a cough; in Erik's eyes their exchange of warnings looked like a tryst.

"Of me?" Solveig was lovely with her hair so dark and her odd, light eyes. Charles realized that it was the first time she'd ever smiled in his presence. He nodded and glee just poured off her.

"Well." She leaned in and brushed his cheek with the back of her knuckles. "Don't be too quick to reassure him."

Someone called to her, needing more mead. Charles kept his head down and serving platter out, still feeling Erik's eyes like weight on his back. And then the trouble started, like one rock tumbling another downhill.

Someone must have said something about Erik's keen regard because the next thing that Charles felt was a searing anger that Erik didn't bother to suppress. A few sharp words left one of the youngest and most hotheaded warriors seething and Charles barely had time to look up before the young one attacked from behind. He'd hefted a hammer made of stone and brought it down on Erik's shoulder and the time between him thinking it and doing it was less than the beat of a bird's wing.

Erik howled into a silent room. He clutched his wounded shoulder and rounded on his attacker who was frozen, still clutching his weapon. It brought Erik up short. Erik darted his eyes around at all the blank faces desperately until he spotted Charles and sagged with relief. "What's happening?"

"I stopped them thinking." Charles sidestepped around a couple who were mid-kiss.

"All of them?" Erik seemed frozen himself until he shifted his weight and winced.

"Seemed like the best idea at the time." Charles delicately fingered the leather at Erik's collar which was darkening with blood. "Come with me."

"What will happen to…?" Erik gestured with his uninjured arm. He was scowling but his eyes were light with something like awe.

"They'll be fine." Charles urged him out of the hall. At the edge of the floor, Charles released their minds with the firm suggestion that Gudrun was a better authority figure than Hrafnkel. The hush stayed absolute for his first five steps away; he could feel them blinking awake one by one.

He walked in Erik's footsteps, attempting not to sigh with impatience.

Erik stopped so dead, Charles walked into his back. "Stop sighing at me. I didn't start it."

"You did." Charles rolled his eyes. "You think just because you didn't strike first that you didn't start it?"

"You distracted me." Erik snapped and then flushed. He turned on his heel and practically ran to their house. Charles followed him, shaking his head. When he got inside, Erik was heating water, looking sulky.

"You know they don't like men like us anyway, so why do you…" Charles tried to be patient.

"You want me to care what they think? Those insects?" Erik huffed. "They're like flies circling a corpse."

"They feel like we do." Charles said reasonably. "And all they have are swords and shields, eyes and hands."

"I'd have killed that bastard." Erik dabbed clumsily at the bloody gash.

"What good would that have done?" Charles washed his hands in the remains of the warm water. "You wish for exile, a blood feud or a hefty wergild?"

"It would have made me feel better. That would be good." But Erik looked up at him wryly.

"For whom exactly?" Charles stroked a piece of hair from over Erik's eye and took the cloth from him, dabbing the blood away much more expertly. Erik stayed silent, except for occasional hisses.

"Does it hurt?" Charles rubbed a finger around what was a quickly darkening bruise.

"What do you…think?" Erik struggled to pull his tunic off. He didn't get very far before his face turned green.

Charles helped him tug it up and over gently, smothering a sigh. "You should maybe consider not saying everything in your head."

Erik's shoulders shook and Charles realized he was laughing. "Why? When I have such a fierce and wise protector?"

Winter didn't come suddenly. Bright days shortened and frost rimed the mornings. The evenings got longer and longer as they pulled back from the sun. The village grew quieter, but the feelings got deeper.

Charles became adept at calming the minds of restless people about to succumb to cabin fever. He could lie in bed and settle a dozen arguments happily while Erik made subtle improvements to Ulfbearth's finest work. On the coldest days, Erik would occasionally quiz Charles for gossip to save himself the trouble of going down to the hall. Then he would deny all interest in the affairs of the village until the next time.

Charles kept himself from Erik's mind for the pleasure of sharing words, quirks of smiles and sentences punctuated by kisses. In the depth of winter, they could spend all day face to face, like twin flames in darkness.

"Why did you take me?" Charles whispered one evening when he'd lost all track of time. Erik's eyes were shut, but he wasn't sleeping.

"I wanted you." Erik slit one eye open.

"You always take whatever you want." Charles pressed his knuckles hard into Erik's ribs.

Erik tilted his chin to look into Charles' eyes. "What should I do, wait for it to be given to me? My heaven isn't like yours, you know. My gods don't grant wishes."

"Answer prayers." Charles said absently, in his own tongue. "But really…why me?"

"Because you're so beautiful. And gentle." Erik made a show of fingering the row of scratches Charles had left on his shoulders.

Charles snatched Erik's hand and bit his fingers. "Tell me truly."

"Because you're like me." Erik tugged at Charles' hair tenderly. "Maybe part of me recognized you. We're different, we're…more."

Charles leaned back so he could watch the firelight flicker in Erik's eyes as Erik mused. Erik's voice was hypnotic. "It's an iron world out there. Every day it gets harder, more my world." Erik's hand tightened in a fist over Charles' sternum.

Erik continued more softly. "But even the finest steel needs tempering." Erik brushed his chin against Charles' temple. "Odin gave his eye for wisdom. But we've given more."

Sometimes listening to Erik's quiet voice almost hurt, Charles thought. Not really…it was more the promise of pain from desires that were too big for one human to contain.

Charles said softly, "It was my first time, you know."

Erik turned to him more fully and stroked his thumb over Charles' lower lip. "What do you want me to say? I can't lie to you. I could say, 'I'm sorry, if I had known, I would have been gentler', but you already feel the truth which is that if I'd known, I would have been rougher, I wouldn't have been able to hold back at all, I would have torn you apart, wanting you too much."

"You wouldn't have." Charles bit Erik's thumb again, not acknowledging the strange warmth Erik's words put in his stomach.

Erik grinned for a second and then his free hand tightened hard in Charles hair, pulling Charles' chin up until his throat was exposed to Erik's sharp teeth. Erik snarled, "You're so sure?"

But this time Charles surged up, shoving his knee between Erik's thighs, digging his nails into Erik's back. Rubbing his hard cock on Erik's taut belly felt natural, easy. "Yes."

"They call you untouchable." Charles kissed Erik's brow, the hollow of his eye, under his ear. "But I touch you all the time."

"Only you." Erik gasped and Charles chest swelled with the power.

"Everyone else is scared of you." Charles bit down ruthlessly on Erik's neck. "But not me."

It was a long winter, but Charles rarely felt cold.

The hall was loud, clinking and clattering overlaid with a steady chorus of voices. They were feasting; their boats were re-fitted and oiled fresh for spring. Back to Charles' rich island, Erik surmised. The sea wasn't cold enough to keep them at home anymore.

He rarely thought of what had been his home. He didn't miss the gentle hills and sandy coast, dotted with sheep. Landscapes had become all the same in his mind, the landscapes which mattered were all inside, locked in the heads and hearts of those around him. He knew every thought now, every feeling. Nothing human was a mystery anymore.

Last night he'd dreamt of glowing yellow eyes and a wry blue smirk. Raven would like Erik, Charles was sure.

Looking down the long table past the huge fire on the hearth, Charles caught Erik's eye. He could see Erik's private grin as Erik raised his glass in a toast.

Charles raised two fingers to his temple and thought simply _**stop.**_

In the sudden silence, Charles took a deep breath. Erik looked around at his frozen companions.

And Charles was quite sure that he wasn't imagining how Erik's eyes were anxious, even fearful, but also proud.


End file.
